


Come Away to the Water

by idoltina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Siblings, F/M, Gen, Pirates, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Siblings Killian and Regina command a crew of pirates and sail the realms aboard the Jolly Roger. When they venture into new territory, however, they cross paths with a group of thieves who prove to be fruitful allies. As Regina grows closer to the Merry Men, tensions run high between her and her brother, and they are forced to examine what it is that they really want -- and what they mean to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InitialA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InitialA/gifts).



> **Warnings:** adult language, alcohol, attempted murder, assault, blood, bruises, dismemberment, forced vomiting, head injuries, homicidal ideation, kidnapping, miscarriage, murder, needles in a tattoo environment, parental abuse, piracy (obviously), previous canonical character death, references to domestic violence and marital rape, sexual situations
> 
> Generally canon compliant with Regina’s FTL backstory through 04.14 with the added caveat that Liam and Killian were her brothers (and that the pirate in Rumple’s backstory is merely someone else). Canon divergent after the fact. **_FLASHBACKS ARE IN ITALICS._**

The trouble with dressing inconspicuously, Regina decides, is that it makes her feel far too much like her younger self. She is no longer eighteen, no longer the girl who pulls her hair back into plaits and dons simple riding clothes. That girl has lost and reclaimed much in the last six years, and Regina is no longer content to remain in the shadows.

But today -- today is a day in which she will indulge her little brother’s desires, and apparently that includes braiding her hair and swapping out her corsets and leather and heavy fabrics for plainer, fur-trimmed clothes. _The Jolly Roger_ is docked in the south bay for the time being, but the kingdom isn’t one they’ve visited before, the territory unfamiliar. Killian’s reservations, however, stem more from climate and security than anything else, and rather than simply announce their presence in a local tavern, he’s decided that he’d rather they _test the waters_.

Honestly, Regina loves her brother, but he’s an _idiot_ at times.

Still, she did agree to the plan in spite of all of her protests, and if she’s got a job to do, she’s going to make damn sure she does it well. They’d agreed it was too dangerous for her to be in the thick of things for this -- not with how close they are to the North Kingdom -- so it’s with a barely contained sigh that Regina shifts her focus back to the crowd surrounding the performance in the middle of the town square, eyes scanning the edges for movement. She hasn’t noticed any vestments indicative of soldiers or even the sheriff’s men, which is promising, but --

“Hey!”

Regina looks sharply in the direction of the voice, eyes narrowing as she tries to discern the nature of the fuss, but the issue is clear by the time the rest of the heads in the crowd turn toward the commotion. Smee’s gotten clumsy, it seems, and has drawn attention to the small pouch of coin he’d just managed to lift off of a previously unsuspecting woman -- nobility, Regina thinks, if her attire is anything to go by.

Killian’s voice rings out above the crowd as the music of the performance dies down, and his order is clear: _run_.

There’s a swarm of activity in the crowd -- too many people bustling about for all of them to be the rest of the crew -- but it’s enough to cause a distraction to provide them with an escape. Regina ducks into the fray quickly, grabbing Smee’s elbow roughly and swiftly dragging him as far away from his prey as she possibly can. _Why_ Killian insisted on bringing Smee along, Regina will never understand, but the damage has been done at this point, and it’s all they can do to get out of here by the skin of their teeth.

A feat which, if left to Smee, is going to be _impossible_ if he keeps making such a racket on the way to the rendezvous point. “Cap’n’s gonna kill me --”

“No, he won’t,” she huffs in exasperation, glancing around the alley to make sure they’re alone. She halts halfway down and spins in place, pinning Smee against the stone wall with her arm. “But if you don’t _shut up_ , I might do it myself.”

“Easy, lass,” Killian says, emerging from the shadows at the end of the alley.

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” she snaps, glaring at him as the rest of the crew starts to filter into the alleyway. “He just jeopardized the entire operation --”

“I’ll say,” a new voice mutters. Regina glances over at the other end of the alley, inhaling sharply at the sight of a man approaching them. He’s unfamiliar -- not one of the crew for sure -- and he’s not alone for long, a whole host of men dressed in green and brown plainclothes approaching them with narrowed eyes. Regina releases her hold on Smee and reaches for the hilt of her sword without thinking twice, the sound of the blade ringing in the air echoed by those of the rest of the crew music to her ears. She grips the handle of her sword a little tighter, though, when the approaching men respond in kind, bows and arrows and clubs all appearing in their hands in an equally fluid motion. Not soldiers or kingsmen, then, maybe not even townsfolk --

“Lower your weapons,” another voice interjects, this one sounding much more affected in its accent. Regina does nothing of the sort, of course, and neither does the rest of the crew, but she can see the surprise register in the face of the instigator even if he doesn’t follow the instruction. He doesn’t get a chance to so much as voice a protest, though, before a new figure emerges around the corner of the alley behind them. He’s taller and thinner than the first man, muscles obvious even underneath the bagginess of his some of his clothes. He too, has a bow and arrow, but he doesn’t move to aim it in their direction at all. “I’m not going to ask you again, John,” he says, moving toward the front and center of his group.

The first man -- John, apparently -- doesn’t obey, but Regina can tell he’s fighting a losing battle. “C’mon Robin,” he murmurs darkly. “They’re clearly just a bunch of fucking _pirates_ \--”

“A fine attitude,” Regina spits back, finally putting the pieces together, “from a bunch of common _thieves_.”

John starts forward, but the other man -- their leader, it seems, Robin? -- places a firm hand on his chest to keep him in place. “Weapons down, men,” Robin instructs again, and this time it’s clear even to the pirates that refusing is not an option. Slowly, bows and arrows are lowered, the hands gripping clubs slackening in obedience. Killian, however, gives no order, and the tip of every sword is sharp and gleaming even under dim torchlight. Robin eyes them with obvious trepidation, but he’s determined, it seems, to keep the peace. “Who among you do you call Captain?”

“That’d be me,” her brother announces, but he resolutely does not move from his spot in the center of their crew. “Killian Jones.”

Robin inclines his head in greeting. “Captain Jones,” he says, and he has _some_ sense of decorum, Regina thinks (and no, _no_ , she will not let Mother’s voice get inside her head, not like this, not today). “I’m afraid there’s just a small misunderstanding, is all.”

“Is that all?” Killian drawls, glancing pointedly at the weapons of the thieves.

“Yes,” Robin insists. “Look, you’re obviously new to these parts. My name is Robin of Locksley -- these are my men,” he introduces, gesturing around at the group. “We run a bit of a ring in these parts. We’ve spent nearly two weeks planning the same operation you and your… crew,” he says carefully, eyes catching Regina’s for a moment, “attempted to orchestrate back there.”

Regina glances over at her brother and watches him work his jaw for a minute. He’s hedging, she can tell, which means he probably believes at least parts of this… Locksley’s story. And belief -- implicit, instinctive, intuitive belief -- is not something that comes easily to her little brother anymore (at least with anyone other than her), so Regina is thoroughly unsurprised when Killian finally lowers his sword and the rest of the crew follow suit.

(She takes a beat longer, just in case.)

“My apologies,” Killian bites out as he sheathes his sword, still clearly unnerved by the whole affair. “I didn’t realize we were intruding upon your sport here.”

“It’s not sport… exactly,” Robin says, and it’s clear that he’s the one doing the hedging this time, the working of his jaw not unlike Killian’s. Regina narrows her eyes, fingers already itching to reach for the hilt of her sword again. He’s hiding something, but before she has a chance to figure out how to pry it out of him, he’s glancing over his shoulder fretfully and taking a step closer to them. “Look,” he murmurs, “the sheriff will have been alerted to the theft by now, which means pretty soon, all of his men will be swarming every road and alley in town.”

Regina inhales sharply and glances over at her brother, but he doesn’t seem nearly as anxious at the news, eyes narrowed and jaw set. “I’m not going to let a few of the sheriff’s men stand between me and my ship, mate.”

Robin draws in a breath, clearly losing patience. “I… don’t think that’s wise,” he advises, and _honestly_ , where does he get the nerve? “Nottingham’s men will be on the lookout for me and my men, not you and yours -- your crew,” he corrects quickly, eyes drifting to Regina again. “I have a proposition for you that might prove advantageous for us both, but it’s unwise to linger here any longer. We have a bit of a safe haven not far from here where we’ve set up camp. Come with us, and we can discuss this further there.”

There’s mild, incoherent grumbling from the first man -- John -- but beyond that, no one on either side dares voice an opinion or protest. Robin’s men seem to mostly respect him and his word, as Killian’s do, but the silence in the air feels fraught with tension. The weapons have been put away, but the peace is still only temporary, and none of them, Regina thinks, would have any qualms about standing behind their leader to fight should this turn ugly.

Killian meets her eyes, briefly, and she sees the question he won’t dare voice out loud: _should we trust them_? Slowly, Regina shifts her gaze back to Robin. He’s looking at her again, seems fucking _fascinated_ by her, and she’s not sure which she wants to do more: roll her eyes or punch him in the face. She doesn’t trust him -- she can’t, really, not when she’s only just met him and doesn’t know him at all -- but he’s made more than an effort to keep the peace between them. At this point, they’re running out of time, and if the decision were up to her, she’d rather gamble and take a chance on a group of common thieves than risk getting caught by the sheriff’s men. With a barely restrained sigh, she looks back to Killian and nods imperceptibly.

That’s all it takes.

“Well then,” Killian drawls, smile plastered on his face as he steps to the side to make room for Robin and his men, “lead the way, Locksley.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional warning added: forced vomiting**   
>  _Flashbacks, as always, are in italics._
> 
> This piece plays a little bit fast and loose with Robin's FTL backstory here -- particularly given the point in canon at which the story diverges -- so he's already Robin Hood by the time our pirate siblings make his acquaintance.

_Regina stays in her bath long after the initially scalding and steaming water has turned tepid, hands and feet pruning with each passing moment. She’s washed herself more than once, has worked out the tangles in her hair and cleaned out the fresh cut on her lower lip until the skin had finally stopped stinging. She resigns herself to getting out of the tub only when she starts to shiver, and the robe she slides onto her shoulders does little to bring her comfort or warmth._

_What she wouldn’t give for Maleficent’s fire right now._

_Her feet feel numb against the stone floor as she emerges into her proper chambers and rifles through her wardrobe for undergarments and a nightgown. She tries to make quick work of it, but her haste only leaves her wincing, pain blossoming from the ache between her thighs._

_This is something she can’t wash clean._

_Regina draws in a breath, a deep shuddering thing to try and steady herself as she slips her robe back on over her nightgown, movements more ginger and careful now. She makes her way over to her vanity and sinks down slowly into her chair, eyes resolutely avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, reaches for her hairbrush and sets to work, bristles seeking tangles she know they won’t find. She brushes until her hair turns from wet to damp, brushes until every wave and curl is straightened into submission. Her hand picks up pace over time, fingers wrapped tight around the handle as she forces her frustration into each sweep through her locks. She brushes and brushes and brushes until it starts to hurt, until she’s pulling and tugging at her hair in an effort to replace the ghost Leopold’s fingers have left behind, twisting and twining and gripping too-rough, nails digging into her scalp as he --_

_She drops the brush back on top of the vanity with a too-loud clatter, gasping and squeezing her eyes shut. She grips the arms of her chair and wills her hands to stop shaking, pressing her thighs together tight as she breathes in and holds it for a moment before releasing the air from her lungs. In, and out, again, and again until the tension bleeds from her muscles and her heartbeat comes to rest._

_When she opens her eyes to the mirror, the bruise on her face has started to blue._

_The next breath she releases feels more weighted than the last, a fitting match for the pallor of her skin and the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way her hair hangs damp and limp over her shoulder. Her chin quivers as she fights against the tears that sting at her eyes, jaw set in determined annoyance. She will not be weak enough for this, will not give him the satisfaction of knowing that the line he’d finally crossed tonight was enough to break her open. She’s spent years suffering in silence; the next several weeks will be no different._

_When she’s finally allowed to leave her chambers again, her face will be pretty and pristine again, as if he’d never laid a hand on her at all._

_Her hand spasms and tightens around the edge of the arm of her chair, her anger nearly enough to spark fire under her skin._

_Nearly._

_Not even forcing herself to vomit up that vile potion had been enough to counter its effect on the magic in her blood, and she is left, now, without any idea of how long it’ll be before her abilities are no longer suppressed and inhibited._

_One of these days, Regina is going to murder Leopold in his sleep._

_She wonders if she could get Maleficent to help._

_But that would require being able to see her again, and right now, that prospect is looking particularly dim. Regina had been… careless, reckless in her little adventure with her new friend, and she is certainly paying the price for it now. A part of her wishes Maleficent hadn’t quite exercised so much restraint in attacking Stefan and his men; if she’d charred them to a crisp, they wouldn’t have been able to pass along word of Regina’s involvement in the whole affair. Still, she supposes she should consider herself lucky that Stefan was unaware of her presence when… misfortune had befallen his daughter: she can only imagine the cost if she’d been implicated in such an act against the princess._

_Gingerly, Regina’s fingers graze over the bruise on her face before tracing over the hollow of her throat, and she swallows hard around her fear. Loathe though she is to admit it, she needs help -- guidance, instruction. She came back to the North Kingdom for a reason, and she’d meant what she said in the stables yesterday. She needs a steady hand and patience, and right now, she’s got all the time in the world to practice. So it’s with a somewhat determined, exhausted breath that Regina lets go of her pride and closes her eyes. “Rumplestiltskin.”_

_Eyes open, and… nothing._

_“Rumplestiltskin.”_

_The air is still around her, cold and quiet and stale, and only Regina’s eyes alone meet her gaze in the mirror. “Rumplestiltskin,” she summons once more, third and final, but still he will not come when she calls. She exhales heavily and swallows hard, gaze dropping to her lap as his refusal settles like lead in her stomach. He’s ignoring her -- that much is obvious. She’d returned home, apologized and recommitted herself to his teachings, but at that point the damage, she thinks, had already been done. He probably saw Leopold’s wrath coming long before Regina ever did, and in its wake, Rumplestiltskin’s silence is his own personal form of punishment._

_Tears blurring her vision, Regina reaches out a hand and pries open her jewelry box, fingers fumbling clumsily as she sifts through the ornate baubles and trinkets her despot of a husband has laden her with until she claims her prize: a chain bearing a simple ring. Her hands are shaking again as she fiddles with the clasp and tries to fasten the chain around her neck, and the tears brimming in her eyes finally spill over onto her cheeks as she grasps the ring tight, metal digging into her palm. “Daniel,” she breathes, half-gasping. “Daniel, I --”_

_A loud thud from the hall outside of her chambers causes her to start in her chair, free hand gripping the arm of her chair tight. She takes a breath, then another, and this time the thud is accompanied by incoherent shouting. Slowly, she relaxes her grip on the chair and brushes the tears from her eyes roughly before glancing over her shoulder at the door. It’s barely a moment more before the sounds outside grow louder, rushing footsteps growing closer. Regina narrows her eyes, confused and more than a little curious, but it’s not until she manages to make out a handful of words -- “They’ve managed to breach the --” -- that she rises from her chair. Carefully, she makes her way toward the door, still clutching the ring on her necklace._

_The door creaks ominously when she pries it open and peers out into the hall. She can’t see anything down the long corridor, but whatever is causing the commotion isn’t far. She shifts her gaze to the two guards Leopold has posted at her doors and worries her lip between her teeth, contemplating. She’s not foolish enough to try and make a break for it with them here -- not without her magic, not with how much pain she’s in -- but she doesn’t think it’ll make her situation worse to simply ask questions. So Regina swallows and licks her lips before clearing her throat and venturing, “Is something wrong?”_

_One of the guards turns his head sharply and glances down at her, eyes narrowing. “It’s none of your concern, Your Majesty,” he says, short and clipped, and without another word, he reaches for the handle of the door and pulls it shut once more. She can’t help the way she winces a little when the door clangs shut, the sound echoing through her chambers. Anger flares in her chest, swelling hot against her sternum, but it’s still not enough, and the lingering effects of the potion Leopold had forced down her throat push Regina’s fire down, making her stomach churn unpleasantly. She presses a hand over her abdomen and tries to breathe evenly before she turns and --_

_Stops._

_A breath startles out of her at the sight of the shadow flitting quickly across her balcony. The commotion in the halls outside of her chambers grows louder, din distracting, but she doesn’t tear her eyes away from the balcony. She is absolutely positive that she saw something moving out there; in the hall, she hears the words again, this time in full._

_They’ve breached the front hall._

_Her heartbeat picks up pace, fingers twirling the chain around her neck as she slowly crosses her chambers and approaches the balcony. The shadow is gone, but she knows, she saw, and the chill of the night air settles stinging and cold over her skin, breath spiraling like smoke in front of her._

_Her anger is all she has, and it alone is not enough to fuel her fire now._

_Regina is scared._

_There may very well be nothing to fear, but given the clear agitation and anxiety of the guards, she highly doubts that. No, whoever has managed to get into the castle clearly has a purpose; what that is, exactly, Regina can only guess at. It could be a revolt -- she’s garnered enough about the state of the peasants in the kingdom to know they’re not as well cared for as Leopold’s advisors would have him believe. It could be thieves seeking treasures of silver and gold and jewels -- all of which Leopold has ensured she possesses in no short supply. Or… it could be soldiers at the front of a war, and of the options she’s considering, Regina thinks she likes the possibility of that one the least._

_She has no desire to be held ransom at the hands of another King: she is not a prize to be won._

_Her hands are shaking again as she gets closer to the balcony, but she presses forward, determined. She has not come this far, survived this long -- endured the sheer hell of her husband’s touch earlier tonight -- to be caught unaware and defenseless. She has enough fight left in her for this. Slowly, she crosses the threshold out onto the balcony, moonlight dancing across her features as she glances around wildly, muscles tense in anticipation, and --_

_Nothing._

_Bewildered, Regina turns on the spot, scanning her surroundings carefully, but there are no more shadows or signs of movement, no indication that there’s anyone else out here with her at all. She can’t quite hear the commotion in the rest of the castle from here, but there’s still a quiet din. Eyes narrowing, Regina turns again and moves closer to the railing to peer out into the courtyard and gardens below. But there is no one out here, not so much as a sound or whisper, and it’s with a heavy exhale that Regina brings her hands up to rest against the railing, fingers curling around the metal tight._

_It has been a year._

_A year since her last falling out with Rumplestiltskin. A year since the moth’s interference. A year since Regina was last this afraid. A year since she was last this low and ready to give up._

_It has been a year since she last stood on this balcony and was unafraid to fall._

_(No wonder you jumped.)_

_She takes a breath to steady herself, fingers flexing anxiously around the railing. She’d run away last year, had retreated into darkness and let it resume its feast._

_(That anger is all you have.)_

_It is still all she has, now -- even without Rumplestiltskin, without her magic or her freedom. She will reclaim those things, one by one, and at the end of the day, Regina will have her revenge for all of the pain she’s been put through. All she has to do is hold onto her anger and seek each new dawn._

_Slowly, Regina lets go of the railing and takes a step away._

_She’s almost smiling (almost) when she turns back around to retreat into her chambers, but any traces of it are gone almost as soon as they appeared when she comes face to face with a short, round man in a red knit cap. “Sorry about this, Miss,” he murmurs quickly. Regina inhales sharply, ready to scream, but before the protest can make its way up her throat, the man is lifting his hand and blowing a glittering orange dust in her face. Regina chokes on it, coughing violently for half a moment, before the edges of her vision start to blur and fade._

_The last thing she sees is the warmth in the blue of the man’s eyes, and she’s out cold before she even hits the ground._

* * * * *

Regina’s brother, it seems, is not the only person she knows to go by a moniker (though, if she’s being technical, so does she at times, but that’s neither here nor there). Robin of Locksley is not all he appears to be, either, and neither are his fellow thieves.

He is, apparently, more commonly known around these parts as Robin Hood -- actually fucking _Robin Hood_ \-- and the knowledge that he is the patron prince of thieves with a band of merry men is almost too much for Regina to handle.

He’s _insufferable_.

Killian, of course, sees things -- sees Robin very differently, and Regina knows that’s Liam’s influence more than anything else. For all that they’re _pirates_ , Regina also knows that her younger brother practically idolized her twin, though she can’t say she blames him. Most of Mother’s attention had gone to her (not that it was warranted or welcome), and Daddy, well. Daddy did the best he could with what he had, and Regina knows, she remembers just how acutely Killian had shared her feelings of loss when they’d learned of his passing.

But this -- Robin and his Merry Men -- is different than being unfailingly loyal to their moral compass of a brother. This is about fairness and _opportunity_ , and the arrangement that Robin has offered is certainly enticing, she’ll give him that. The Merry Men will get a cut of the booty the pirates collect from other kingdoms and lands and realms, and in return, the pirates will now have both ample opportunities for heists as well as a safe haven when needed. It’s not a terrible idea for them to have allies on land -- particularly with how close they are to the North Kingdom -- and it certainly opens up a whole extra host of possibilities to allow them to do what they do best: extort and pilfer, filch and sack, maraud and embezzle and high-jack. And most of all, drink.

Regina does not, as a general rule, drink during the daytime. Even though she’s built up a better tolerance in the last two years, she’s still very much a lightweight, especially compared to the rest of the crew. And as first mate, she cannot afford to be sloppy in her work -- doesn’t _want_ to be sloppy or lazy or make a costly mistake. She takes her position very seriously, and though she’s fairly certain Killian would cut her some slack if she wanted to skive off for an afternoon, she doesn’t want to put him in a position where he has to make excuses for her. They need to set an example, her more than anyone.

And while they’re not exactly _working_ at the moment, this could, for all intents and purposes, be considered a business meeting if they’re to be allies. That doesn’t seem to matter much to any of the others though: mugs and flasks of rum and ale are being passed around in good cheer, thieves and pirates alike toasting to their new alliance. It’s a _good_ thing, really, particularly given their near altercation in the alley earlier today, but Regina cannot bring herself to indulge in such spirits as the rest of them, and it is entirely Robin’s fault.

It’s not as if she disapproves of the way he runs his little operation out here: steal from the rich to give to the poor. It’s just -- it’s a noble thing, and he’s well aware of that to the point of being rather _smug_ , and she honestly just kind of wants to break his nose if only to mar his stupidly handsome face. Not that it would get rid of his smirk. Or the dimples. Or stop him from constantly _staring_ at her -- seriously, again? Regina works her jaw in irritation but resolutely meets his gaze, eyebrows arched in silent challenge. See how _he_ likes it, for a change.

He just _smiles_ at her, the infuriating idiot, and Regina does not bother suppressing the urge to roll her eyes and look away.

She’s startled a few moments later at the sight of a mug being held out in offering -- ale, by the smell of it -- and her eyes follow the hand around the mug up the arm to the face of its owner. And as _irritated_ as she is to see that it’s Robin, she’s at least mildly relieved that he seems to have abandoned his intense study of her to actually come and fucking talk to her. “Join us?” he offers, sounding almost tentative. “Or I can get you some of the rum, if you’d rather.”

Regina meets his gaze for half a second more before she looks away again, eyes scanning the crowd for her brother. “No, thank you,” she answers coolly. “I don’t daytime drink.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Robin shrug and bring the mug to his lips for a drink. “Another time then, perhaps,” he says, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

They’re both quiet for another moment or two, even after Regina’s found her brother in the thick of the group. He’s seated on a log next to the impertinent man from before -- John, if she remembers correctly -- and is clearly trying to talk him around. Killian must be regaling him with a tale of one of their many adventures -- she knows, she can tell by the sweeping movements of his arms, by the way his eyes light up. And it’s working -- or it looks like it, anyway, if the way John’s leaning in and paying rapt attention is anything to go by. Still, not even her own leisurely study of her brother is enough to distract Regina from the weight of Robin’s gaze upon her again, and she’s unsurprised when he speaks up again. “You don’t approve.”

“Don’t approve of what?” she sighs, adjusting her stance where she’s leaning against a tree at the fringes of their camp.

“Our arrangement,” he clarifies. “An alliance.”

Regina narrows her eyes, annoyed, but she straightens up a bit and squares her shoulders, determined not to let him get under her skin too much. “If I’d had any objections, you can be sure I would have made them clear to my captain. That’s my job.”

“And what exactly is… your position?” Robin pries, clearly choosing his words carefully.

She feels a flash of anger in her chest, white hot and unchecked at the thought of what he’s implying (this is her _brother_ they’re talking about, it doesn’t even matter that Robin doesn’t know that). She allows the agitated flexing of her fingers but will not let him see her temper flare, will not let him see just how much he gets to her. “I’m the first mate,” she says simply. A beat, and then she glances over at him as casually as she possibly can, leveling him with a look. “Why?” she asks, voice falsely bright. “Did you think I provided some other services to the captain?”

She sees recognition flash quickly in his eyes, his cheeks tinged with just the barest hint of color, but it’s not quite what she’d been expecting. She’s caught him off guard, that’s obvious, but he doesn’t look embarrassed like she thought he would, doesn’t look at all like she’s called him out on the insinuation. And whatever… _this_ reaction is clearly isn’t enough to throw him for long because he’s pulling himself together quickly and matching her false civility with his own. “I simply didn’t know what your role was amongst the crew,” he says, “hence why I inquired.” She merely _hmm_ s in response, tearing her gaze away from him to mask her irritation at being unable to repay the favor of being supremely fucking irritating, but her attention is only diverted for half a moment before he’s reclaiming it again. “And… you don’t seem at all like I thought you would.”

Regina narrows her eyes, brow furrowing in confusion, but she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking over at him again. “And how did you think I would be?” she replies, unable to help taking the bait.

“Reluctant,” Robin says simply. “Definitely not the willing and active participant you clearly are.”

His answer is just as cryptic as the rest of this ridiculous conversation, and Mother’s voice is barely a whisper in the back of Regina’s mind as she abandons all pretense and attempt at politeness and looks over at him sharply. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t look very kidnapped, is all I’m saying,” he reasons, taking another swig from his mug.

“ _Excuse me_?” she asks, voice low and dangerous. He’s leapt straight from barely-there insinuations to outright assumptions and accusations, and while there’s a part of her that is exceedingly puzzled by the way this insufferable idiot’s mind works, she finds herself more angry than anything else. Well, not _angry_ , exactly, but she’s loathe to label this inflammatory emotion as something as basal and pedestrian as _indignant_. She resents the implication of how she came into her position, to her _family_ \-- particularly from a _man_ \-- but there’s a twinge of something else there, too, beneath all of her fury.

Robin, for his part, seems thoroughly unrattled by her sharp change in demeanor, but before Regina can even so much as shift her mindset into something decidedly more fit for piracy, he’s reaching into a pocket somewhere on his person and pulling out a rolled up piece of parchment. He’s barely held it out in offering before she’s snatching it out of his hand, and the scowl that’s taken up residence on her face slowly disappears as she unravels the page and finally pinpoints that other underlying emotion: _fear_.

It’s a wanted poster.

A missing persons poster, if she’s being technical, but the semantics of it matter little considering the way her stomach jolts and drops at the realization. She feels a chill run up her spine and is suddenly grateful that Robin can only see her in profile; for a moment, she feels as though she may give too much away. She cannot bring herself to speak, heart lodged at the bottom of her throat, but it matters little in the end because once again, Robin speaks before she’s able. “It’s not a very good likeness,” he ventures after a long silence between them, careful to keep his voice low even though it’s unlikely any of the others will hear them this far away. “The artist didn’t do you justice, in my humble opinion.”

His attempt at false flattery just makes her angrier. “What do you want?” she snaps, crumpling up the page and refusing to look at him. “Double the reward? Jewels to sell off so you can continue your little noble charade? How exactly do you like your hush money?”

The air between them feels a little more tense at that. She thinks she finally may have made him feel uncomfortable, but the victory feels hollow. Still, he matches her volley with one of his own, but it’s not at all what she’s expecting. “If all I wanted was money, I’d have turned in your captain,” he argues. “The King’s offering three times the amount of your safe return for the pirate who took you.”

And anger -- old, buried, long forgotten anger at her regrettably still-husband -- churns hot in her stomach, making her feel _sick_ at the thought that he still, after all this time, finds so little value in her. “What do you _want_ , then?” she asks, nearly spitting it at him as she whips around sharply to face him. “Because if you’re asking me to _betray my captain_ \--”

“Easy,” Robin interjects, clearly attempting to be some sort of soothing as he holds up a hand to halt her impending tirade. “I would ask nothing of the kind, and I’m not in it for the money, either. It wouldn’t do to blackmail an ally, much less a _new_ ally at that.” He hesitates for a beat, glancing over at the rest of the men in the camp briefly, before he adds, “I believe your captain would call that bad form.”

And that’s Liam again, a ghost in the back of Killian’s throat, but Regina embraces it now where she wouldn’t before. “Yes,” she grits out, her patience rapidly vanishing, “it would be bad form.” It’s her turn to hesitate now, a moment she takes to gather herself and regain her bearings, unfurling the parchment carefully. And Regina is every bit woman and pirate in her smile and the sway of her hips as she saunters closer and closes the gap between them, pressing the page flat against his chest. She smirks a little at the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat at the proximity, victory a lot less hollow, and her tone makes it very, very clear that no matter how nicely she’s playing now, she is the one not to double-cross. “Then tell me, _Robin Hood_ , if you’re not in it for the money, why would you go to all the trouble of sharing this with me?”

His gaze shifts, dropping down to what she thinks is the handle of her sword, and the smile he offers up in return when he looks back up at her is tight around the edges. “Consider it a friendly warning,” he murmurs, and _oh_ , his voice has gone all breathy, that’s… interesting. She blinks a little to shake it off and arches her eyebrows expectedly, granting him permission to continue. “While I’m sure you’re very careful any time you’re this near to the North Kingdom, I would… _suggest_ exercising a bit of extra caution any time you decide to make port.” Another beat of hesitation, his turn to take it now, and the breath that fills his lungs clearly gives him back some confidence, shoulders straightening. Slowly, he shifts his hand under the parchment and pushes it away, pressing it carefully against her chest in kind. “That posting is less than three weeks old,” he reveals, and there is something almost… kind in his voice. “I would hate to lose new allies so soon after our accord.”

Regina deliberately directs her gaze down to where his palm is resting just above the swell of her breasts, and she makes it clear without so much as a word that the only reason it’s still there is because she allows it. “I have a hard time believing that someone like you wouldn’t have an ulterior motive in something like this,” she muses, glancing back up at him.

The corner of his mouth twists into a smile, deepening the dimple on that side, and something altogether… mischievous sparks in his eyes. “Are you always this suspicious or is that the pirate talking?”

She narrows her eyes, just barely, enough to match his spark, and she takes a step closer -- almost too close for comfort. “You want me to trust you,” she reasons, reaching up pluck his hand off of her chest and refusing to relinquish the poster to him. “Give me a reason.” Robin hardly spares a second glance for the piece of parchment, gaze transfixed upon her, and it’s almost as if they’re in the alley all over again, his world narrowing to the space she occupies. At least now she understands _why_ he’d been fucking fascinated with her earlier: he knows her -- their -- secret, and in spite of his protests, she imagines that’s quite the treasure to behold.

And two years in, Regina Mills refuses to allow anyone to look at her as a prize to be won ever again.

“I’m not much one for royalty,” he admits after a long moment. Whether he means that as a compliment or an insult, she’s not really sure, but he doesn’t give her the chance to find out, insufferable and presumptuous as he is. “And I’ve no love lost for a man who lacks care and compassion for his wife the way King Leopold seems to for you,” he adds, nodding at the paper still clutched in her hand, and she is momentarily so jarred by the admission that it takes her longer than she’s proud of to realize he’s referring to the reward. “Such a gentlemen is hardly worth the title, much less _my_ assistance.”

For a wild moment, she thinks he might actually be trying to flirt with her (that’s a ludicrous thought in and of itself, not something she would ever actually entertain), but she buries it down and away, eyes narrowing in discernment as his intentions become more clear. Her smile falters a little in disbelief but doesn’t fade, and she doesn’t bother trying to temper the incredulity in her voice when she finally responds. “You really are _disgustingly_ noble, aren’t you?”

He chuckles at that, tries (and fails) to hide his smile behind his mug as he takes another swig of ale, and once again, Regina is filled with a desire to wipe it right off of his stupid, smug face. Preferably with her fist. “I used to be,” he says at last, and it’s a far, far cry from what she’d been expecting. She manages to school her features into something resembling barely bemused interest in the double meaning there, but she’s failed at masking her surprise entirely -- she knows, she can see it in eyes, in the satisfaction of his smile. “But,” he muses, closing the last of the miniscule distance between them and causing her to inhale sharply at the proximity, _fuck_ , “like you, I decided I liked the view of the world a little better from down here.”

And there’s no mistaking it this time: he _is_ flirting with her, outrageously so, but there is so much more to the weight of that statement -- a history hidden beneath bravado -- that she cannot feel the full force of it. This is all a game to him, she thinks, but he’s changed the rules halfway through; it’s not longer his goal to unnerve her, but rather to play at intrigue. Either way, she feels… off-kilter, unsure what to make of him, and the fact that he’s managed to so thoroughly disarm her is, to a point, _aggravating_. And really, what makes the whole thing worse is that for all that this is a game, _she_ is decidedly not -- he’s made that perfectly clear. And underneath all of that cloying charm, she thinks she finally gets a glimpse at the point he’s trying to make.

Perhaps they aren’t so different, after all.

Still, she’s thrown enough by his odd little admission of a past life so startlingly different to this one that she’s having trouble coming up with any sort of retort. So Regina stands and stares down his smirk until he finally takes a step back, lifting his mug once more. “To new friends,” he offers, a toast deliberately meant to give him an out. Regina works her jaw a little but offers up no reply, refusing to reach for a mug or flask or so much as a waterskin, and still he refuses to be bothered by her defiance. “Milady,” Robin murmurs, inclining his head in polite parting, and without another word, he leaves her to her prior solitude amidst the grove of trees at the edge of camp.

It’s not until he’s nearly back in the thick of things that she realizes the wanted poster is gone from her person. She whips around, eyes scanning the crowd of pirates and thieves alike until she finds him perched upon a log next to her brother, mug still in hand. He must feel her eyes on him because it’s only a moment before he’s meeting her gaze with his own, eyebrow arching in apparent amusement. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the page, subtly flashing it in her direction. Regina narrows her eyes and settles her hands on her hips, fingers itching to reach for the handle of her sword.

And then Robin tosses the parchment into the fire, fueling the flames, and all at once, Regina finds herself relaxing.

Friends, she thinks, may be a bit premature -- presumptuous at this point in time, certainly. But it’s a new… _something_ , and for the first time in two years, Regina thinks she may be ready for adventures of a different sort. With a sigh, Regina plucks her waterskin from her waist and begrudgingly holds it up in silent toast in his direction.

Across the camp, the prince of thieves smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

_Killian’s not sure how long they’ve been lying here on his bed. Neverland is funny that way, lights and shadows and stars a circle that tricks and traps and makes it impossible to note the passage of time. He’s spent more than enough time here to have gotten used to it to the point where he doesn’t even really notice, but tonight is different. They’d abandoned the use of candles when they’d last arrived in these waters, and tonight, he struggles to mark the passage of time. In the end, he’s forced to simply sit here reclined against his headboard, arm wrapped against his sister as she curls against him and struggles to sleep._

_He passes some of the time by simply watching her, noting the absent-minded fidgeting of her fingers as she tries to force the tangles out of her still-damp hair. She’s done that a lot more in recent months, has spent hours with a brush brooding in silence. After a while, her hands find other occupation: twisting the chain around her neck; toying with the stray threads of his shirt; tracing the grooves of Liam’s ring on Killian’s hand. Eventually, though, Killian stops finding things to note, and he finds himself surprised at the way Regina’s breathing has slowed -- a gentle cadence matching the almost lyrical ebb and flow of water against the ship’s hull._

_It’s only now, when he’s certain enough time has passed for her to be properly asleep, that Killian ventures a hand out to examine her more closely. The marks the mermaids had left behind weren’t fatal as far as they could tell, but Regina had been shaking something awful when they finally managed to get her back on the ship. And it matters little to him that she is three (seven?) years his elder; she is still his sister, and he will not entertain the idea of losing her now -- not after everything they’ve been through. Her arm tightens around his waist, a reflex in her sleep, and Killian hesitates, hand hovering over her._

_He swallows the ghost of Liam down, down, down and knows he can never replace what they both have lost._

_But Regina settles again and doesn’t wake, so Killian breathes a little easier and resumes his earlier inspection. He reaches for her arm first, carefully pushes back her sleeve to examine the injury on her arm. There’s bruising along the back, skin mottling purple and blue, and he’s careful as he turns her arm over, knowing she must be tender and sore. The welt along the inside of her arm is much more of a pressing concern, though, angry pinks and reds and purples covering up the matching anchor tattoo she’d gotten with him last year. They’d cleaned it for her as best they could earlier, him and Mister Smee, but none of the crew has dealt with a mermaid’s sting before. They hadn’t been sure how similar it would be to treating one from a jellyfish, and Regina is much too important a person (to him, to the crew) to take that much of a risk upon. But they need to do something more, and soon, so Killian resolves to add it to his list of requests when he goes ashore in a little while._

_For now, he leaves her arm be and shifts his attention, ducking his head a little to try and get a better look at her face. She’s still lax in her sleep, unaware of his observance (or at least he thinks she is, anyway, he hopes), so it’s with gentle fingers that Killian brushes her hair away from her neck and tries to get a look at the mark there. It’s not as bad as the one on her arm -- this one’s just a bright pink -- but the shape is sharper, more stark against her skin. He can make out where each of the mermaid’s fingers had dug into his sister’s neck and anger boils in him, licking hot beneath his skin. He leans in a little closer, smells the saltwater that clings to her hair and skin, and brushes his fingers featherlight against the mark. Regina inhales sharply, face pinching in pain, but still she doesn’t wake. Killian withdraws his fingers quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear and dropping a gentle kiss to the jagged cut on her temple._

_Slowly, the muscles in her face grow lax again, and after a long moment or two, he feels safe enough to gently draw himself out from under her embrace and rise from the bed. It takes her approximately ten seconds to shift on the bed and curl around his best pillow, and in spite of the gravity of the situation, Killian finds himself smiling. It’s a far, far cry from the way she’d slept when she’d first taken up residence on the ship; years of Mother’s helping hand and Leopold’s watchful eye had shaped his sister up to be a rather poor, stiff sleeper, one who would wake at the slightest of sounds. Two years on the ship seems to have done her some good in that department if nothing else, and for a moment Killian feels rather small -- like a child watching his sister sleep._

_But Neverland is only for children, and neither of them believes enough anymore to stay any longer._

_So it’s with a weary sigh that Killian runs a hand through his hair and ducks out of his quarters back onto the deck of the ship. He makes his way back up to the wheel first, straightening his shoulders. “Mister Smee,” he addresses, firm but quiet. He doesn’t want his voice to carry just in case Regina’s not sleeping as soundly as he’d thought._

_“Cap’n,” Mister Smee offers back, inclining his head in greeting. He hesitates for a moment, clearly nervous, but he must muster up courage from somewhere because he ventures, “Is she… alright?”_

_Killian claps a hand against his shoulder, just briefly, to both express his gratitude for the inquiry and put Mister Smee’s mind at ease. “Sleeping,” he says, “though it took her a while to drop off. She’ll need a salve or something for the stings, but otherwise she’s…” He tapers off here, unsure how to continue. He doesn’t particularly like the idea of lying to Mister Smee -- not with how loyal, how kind he’s been over the years -- but the idea of being honest doesn’t sit well with Killian either. He’s not sure he even really has a word to describe the state his sister is in at the moment, and even if he could come up with one, he’s sure it wouldn’t be a particularly pleasant one. And it’s that which he wants to avoid more than anything -- because if he faces the truth of just how bad things have become, it becomes that much more real._

_Neverland is a place of make-believe._

_If they can simply leave it, perhaps this whole affair will be barely beyond a memory._

_“Still breathing?” Mister Smee offers after a moment of silence. Killian glances sharply at him, but there’s a gentle warmth to his smile that puts Killian at ease. Regina is well loved by the crew, true enough, but Mister Smee holds nearly as much regard for her as Killian does -- though, Killian supposes that makes a reasonable amount of sense, given the things Mister Smee knows about her that the rest of the crew do not._

_“I’d like to keep her that way,” Killian throws back dryly, gesturing for Mister Smee to follow him to the starboard side. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you? In case she needs anything or those foul f -- mermaids try to sink the ship?”_

_“Of course, Cap’n,” Mister Smee agrees easily, following him, “but why can’t you --”_

_“I’m going ashore.”_

_The sound of footsteps following ceases at that, and when he glances over his shoulder, Killian is unsurprised to find Mister Smee looking ashen at the mere thought. “Why?”_

_Killian sucks in a sharp breath to steel himself and moves toward where the rowboat is hoisted and hanging. “We have to get out of here somehow, Mister Smee. You and I both know that won’t happen unless I go to him for help.”_

_Mister Smee finally catches up, moving quickly to help prepare the dinghy, but his protest, Killian knows, has only just begun. “Can’t you send someone else, Cap’n? I’m sure I could find someone willing to negotiate in your stead -- Smith, or Turner --”_

_Killian sighs, halting in his movements for a moment. “I’m the captain,” he says, doing his best to sound patient. “It’s my duty. And… she’s my sister, Mister Smee,” he adds, casting a meaningful glance over at his former first mate. “It should be me.”_

_Mister Smee, too, halts in his helping, and though he nods in affirmation, Killian knows the protest is not at an end -- not yet. “Still,” he reasons, “you could take someone with you.” Killian throws an exasperated look in his direction, but Mister Smee, it seems, is full of uncharacteristically defiant courage tonight. “It’s just -- I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to see you ashore,” Mister Smee argues, “after the way you left last time.”_

_Killian scoffs in derision and turns his attention back to the dinghy. “That’s not going to change just because I bring someone along, Mister Smee.”_

_He starts a bit when he feels a hand enclose around his arm, gentle and strong, and there’s such kindness in Mister Smee’s eyes when Killian looks at him that Killian can’t help but stop what he’s doing. “The first time you left this ship to set foot on that island set in motion things that eventually led to all of us losing you for a while, Captain. Forgive me if I’m less than eager to let you go again.”_

_Warmth blossoms in Killian’s chest at that, a balm against the chill the night’s events have brought upon his soul. Gently, he pries Mister Smee’s hand from his arm and offers up a twisted half-smile. “And if I don’t go,” he murmurs, “then I fear we are already lost. And that, Mister Smee, is not a fate I would wish on any of our crew -- least of all my sister.”_

_Mister Smee matches Killian’s twisted half-smile with one of his own and sighs heavily -- resigning at last, Killian thinks. “Well then, that makes you a much better man than him.”_

_Killian chuckles. “I’d hardly call either of us men, Mister Smee.”_

_To that, Mister Smee has nothing to say, and they spend the rest of the time preparing the rowboat in companionable silence._

_Still, he can feel Mister Smee’s eyes on him long after he’s climbed into the rowboat and reached for the oars, and Killian has to force himself not to look back up. It would be all too easy to beg off -- to do as Mister Smee had suggested and send someone else to negotiate in his stead -- and despite his bravado, Killian had found the offer… tempting. He hasn’t been ashore in close to two and a half years, and while he’s sure to incur some wrath upon his return, it’s not the promise of an unwarm welcome that has Killian nervous about his return._

_There is a part of him, however small, that worries just how easy it might be for him to just… stay, once he’s set foot on shore._

_(By Neverland’s standards, he is still a child at his core.)_

_He shakes his head in an effort to put the thought from his mind, trying instead to focus on the way the muscles in his arms burn with fatigue at each pull of the oars. He hadn’t had so much as a morsel after he’d dived into the water to pry Regina from the mermaids’ clutches and pulled her back to the surface, and he’s feeling the effects of it now, body begging for rest. But he narrows his eyes, centering his thoughts only on the pain -- and the way it fuels his anger._

_Once ashore, he has a feeling he’s going to need it._

_Still, he reaches shore much too quickly for his own taste (another trick of Neverland, he supposes, that they can never drop anchor far enough away from the mainland to be comfortable). He tries not to dwell on the way his heart jumps into his throat the second his boot touches sand, sets his jaw and pulls the rowboat ashore to prevent it from drifting away. He takes a moment to straighten up and glance around, hands on his hips as he tries to gauge where he is. The cove is just barely visible, down on his right, which means he’s come up on the south side of the island west of Skull Rock, just at the edges of the Dark Jungle. The camp, last he can recall, was located much farther north, closer to the Echo Caves, and outdated though his intel is, Killian can only imagine how long it’s going to take him to get there -- and unscathed, at that._

_With a heavy sigh, Killian resigns himself to the trek and turns around to face the island properly._

_The sight that greets him nearly startles him out of his skin. “Hello, Killian.”_

_Killian takes a breath to steady himself and flexes his fingers anxiously, trying valiantly not to curl them into fists. “Pan,” he grits out._

_“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Pan muses, folding his arms over his chest. “I see you’ve gone and made a proper -- well, a captain of some sort out of yourself, at any rate.”_

_Killian works his jaw, breath coming out harshly through his nose, and it takes every last bit of patience he has not to take the bait. “I haven’t come to play games.”_

_Pan heaves a great sigh and starts to make his way across the sand. “Now where’s the fun in that?” he says, half-teasing. He brushes Killian’s shoulder with his own as he passes by, just barely, but the contact is enough to make Killian shiver._

_Killian takes a moment to compose himself, and when he turns around to face Pan again, his former keeper has taken to skipping rocks out across the water. Killian breathes a little easier at the sight of Pan’s back, if only because he has the extra moment to make sure he’s able to keep his temper in check. “I’ve come to negotiate,” he says, proud of the way he manages to keep his voice even. “I’d like a way out of Neverland for myself and my crew.”_

_“Including that darling sister of yours, I suppose,” Pan drawls, still skipping stones. Killian sucks in a breath and takes a half-step back, glancing around wildly for a moment. All at once, this very much feels like a trap, and he finds himself wondering just how much Pan had discovered in his absence._

_He wonders if Tink (and Bae, and Wendy Darling) is alright._

_“Unfortunate incident, that,” Pan adds after a long moment, inclining his head in the direction of the cove. He hesitates for the space of a beat, turning a stone in his hand, before he glances over his shoulder and flashes Killian a grin that is anything but bemused. “You know, I can’t figure out for the life of me why the mermaids seem to hate people so much. They’re perfectly friendly with me.”_

_Killian swallows thickly and very deliberately does not reach for his sword. He’s not stupid, he can read between the lines, but even acknowledging Pan’s potential part in what happened to Regina tonight is probably enough to make this whole deal go south, at best. At worst, Killian thinks, it would cost him his neck. Instead, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and offers Pan a tight smile. “Perhaps they’re simply wiser than most,” Killian offers, knowing he’s pressing his luck here. “A friendship with you is invaluable in these parts.”_

_Killian only just manages to catch a glimpse of Pan’s answering smile, tight with rage around the edges. He skips the stone with too much force but manages a better attempt than most as the rock dances light across the water -- one, two, three, four, five. It’s only when it hits the water with a very final-sounding plunk that Pan turns around to face him again, and there is no mistaking the flash of anger in his eyes. “And yet you were so unkind as to rebuke it,” Pan sighs._

_“That was my mistake,” Killian rushes to assure him. “I needed --” He pauses, just for half a moment, before taking the opening. “I needed then what I need again now,” he admits. “I need a way out of this realm -- and a salve of some sort, for my sister’s stings,” he adds quickly. “The fact that I’m here now should be more than enough of an indication that I’ve learned my lesson.”_

_Pan’s smile softens around the edges, just enough that he looks actually bemused now as he arches an eyebrow in response. “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he muses, giving Killian a once-over thoughtfully. “It’s not generally a thing people do here.”_

_“You let me go once,” Killian reminds him. “You let me go on the condition that I would return, and I upheld my end of the bargain.”_

_“Seems to me like you were the one who got the better end of that deal,” Pan says, smirking as he brushes by Killian on his way back up the beach. “And that was only the first time. The last time you left, you didn’t even so much as leave a note.” He halts halfway up the beach and whirls around, arms thrown out to the sides, and the gesture is anything but welcoming. “Is that any way to express your gratitude to someone who offered you a haven when you needed one?”_

_Guilt licks at Killian’s throat like wildfire, but he swallows it down, down, down, burning Liam’s ghost into ash that settles in his lungs. “I won’t take no for an answer,” he says bluntly, voice raw and scratchy. “I’m sure you know what that’s like.”_

_A grin breaks onto Pan’s face at that, a laugh bursting forth from his lungs. “Well,” he drawls, sounding equal parts satisfied and amused, “it seems piracy suits you after all.”_

_“The terms,” Killian counters firmly, itching to get the hell off of the island. “I’ve given you mine. You’ve yet to give me yours.”_

_Pan merely hums in response, clearly enjoying dragging this little dance out. He pushes himself off of the sand with the ease only pixie dust can provide him and arches into the air until he’s horizontal. Slowly, he flies up and over Killian’s head as if he’s merely floating on water, circling him carefully. Again, Killian gets the sense that he’s walked right into Pan’s trap, but that would be bad form -- unfair, and at the end of the day, this is still all very much a game. “Last time, you returned,” Pan reminds him._

_Killian’s jaw jumps a little at the implication (at the thought, his traitorous mind supplies, of being separated from his sister again), but he stands his ground. “I’m afraid that’s not an option this time around.”_

_“And while that surprises absolutely no one,” Pan deadpans, starting a second loop, “I’ve no interest in keeping you here. It’s not you I want.”_

_Killian whirls on the spot lightning-fast to level a glare directly at him. “She’s off-limits.”_

_Pan actually pauses in his path, head lolling to the side as he flashes a too-bright grin in Killian’s direction. “Touching,” he drawls, clearly mocking, “but there’s no reason to fret. I’ve no interest in your sister either. Neverland doesn’t tend to agree with adults very well -- although it seems you’ve already figured that out, given the circumstances.”_

_Killian only just barely bites back his burning hatred for this man -- this boy who orchestrates games and pulls strings to play people like puppets. He cannot, will not let Pan provoke him into making the accusation outright; this is not a game he can afford to lose. “Who is it you want, then?”_

_Pan’s expression shifts to neutral in the blink of an eye, and he’s back to gazing up at the near-mapless stars and resuming his irritating circular levitation. “That’s my business,” he says simply. “But luckily for you, I’m feeling particularly charitable at the moment, so all I require from you, my dear prodigal son, is the same thing you gave me last time -- a promise.”_

_Killian arches an eyebrow, the only indication of his surprise, and this time he doesn’t follow Pan with his eyes. “A promise?” he echoes. “To what, exactly?”_

_Pan pauses again in his peripheral vision, and Killian can tell even without turning his gaze directly onto him that Pan is once again smiling. “Let’s just say you’ll owe me a favor.”_

_Ash turns to ice in his lungs, and this time when Pan circles around in front of him, Killian looks directly into his eyes. “Seems to me like you’re the one who gets the better end of that deal.”_

_“Oh, I don’t think so,” Pan reasons, pivoting forward and shifting down until his toes touch the sand. “You’re getting what you want, after all.”_

_Killian squares his shoulders a bit and draws himself up to his full height, sand shifting beneath his weight. “I’m not in the business of owing someone such a debt.”_

_Pan’s eyes narrow, and there’s no mistaking the sheer malice that occupies both his irises and his answering smile. “Look at it this way -- at least this is one you know you can repay.”_

_Nightshade blurs Killian’s vision black and the ghost of Liam cannot, will not die, a shadow that burns every breath and grips with a vice ice cold. And cold, Regina had been so cold when he’d pulled her from the water, shivering against his skin as she breathed warm and wild against his neck with whispers -- please, Killian, I want to go home. And they had tried, he and Liam, to return home heroes to no king, had tried and failed and he’d sent Liam’s body out to sea with a blackened heart and no, no._

_Killian will not bear the brunt of more dead weight -- not again. Not this time._

_“Well then,” Pan murmurs, starling Killian with his sudden nearness, “do we have an accord?”_

_Killian turns, just slightly, to look Pan in the eye, and though he’s older than Pan (has always been older than Pan), Killian finds himself feeling uncomfortably young -- by Neverland’s standards or otherwise. Pan drops a duo of items into Killian’s hand -- the salve, as requested, and a glowing, glittering magic bean -- and arches an eyebrow in silent expectation._

_Killian is not a child anymore, and he will not suffer more blood on his hands._

_“Aye,” he concurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That we do.”_

__

* * * * *

All things considered, Killian Mills considers himself a rather mediocre pirate. He is, most importantly, a free man, bound to serve no one. He’s commandeered a former ship of the royal fleet and semi-regularly attacks merchant vessels, seeks and steals treasure with the best of men (and women). He knows full well how to wield a sword, and, admittedly, he does drink rather a lot more rum than he ever did before. But even pirates have a code -- rules and regulations and a sense of decorum that helps prevent them from turning their backs on each other. They very much look after their own, are well kept and fed and loyal enough for it not to be a fault, and the freedom and care that piracy affords is often (usually, in Killian’s meager experience) far more appealing than life as a sailor aboard a military or merchant vessel -- or worse, forced servitude.

And while Killian -- or _Captain Jones_ , rather -- has no problem both following and enforcing them, he’s also implemented extra measures of his own that perhaps are a bit less typical of the average pirate. They do not lay waste to the establishments they frequent out of respect. They do not take from those less fortunate than themselves. They are never to lay a harsh hand upon women and children, and while Killian wouldn’t bother trying to prevent the crew from seeking out pleasurable company on shore, he has made it absolutely clear from day one that even _attempting_ to force oneself upon a woman (or man, in some of the crew’s case) would be met with pain of death.

Once Regina had been brought on board, no one had dared question why.

Still, all things considered, Killian doesn’t think he’s ever really _felt_ like much of a pirate. He’s been hardened by his experiences, true enough, but he’s still reasonably young in both body and in mind, and recruiting Mister Smee as part of the crew has since served as a constant reminder of exactly where it is that they’ve come from -- who they both have been. And Regina, well. Regina’s daily presence even after years apart reminds Killian that he is a _Mills_ with every breath that he takes, and no moniker or treasure or amount of rum can ever really force that out of him.

Now, though, all of that is beginning to change.

He thinks -- _knows_ , honestly, that their recent trip to Agrabah is largely (not entirely) to blame. They haven’t traveled quite so far from Misthaven -- from _home_ since Neverland, and while the journey had been more than necessary at this point (their run-in with the Merry Men had been proof enough of that), the decision to leave had been met with mixed reactions. The crew, for the most part, were glad for it; much as the thieves of the sea had seemed to get along with those on land, Killian knows that his men have been longing for a spot of honest pirating since long before they’d even set course for Neverland. They’d been patient and understanding of the circumstances for months, had been game for experimenting and orchestrating heists instead of pillages; they’d long ago earned this trip.

Regina had approached the trip with an understandable amount of trepidation, given their last excursion to somewhere this far away. The knowledge that Leopold is still looking for her -- for _them_ hasn’t helped her nerves at all. She’s hidden it well, but Killian knows his sister, he sees the ways in which her fear and anxiety manifest themselves. She’s been a bit short with the crew in recent weeks, has pored over parchments and reorganized half of their supplies. The night before they’d made port in the harbor, he’d ducked into her quarters to bid her good night and found her pulling her brush through her hair, over and over and over again. He’d left her alone without a word, after that, and she’d hardly spoken more than ten words at once the whole time they’d explored the marketplace.

Killian, for his part, had fallen somewhere in the in-between on their approach to Agrabah. He knows a part of him has been itching to set sail again; his poorly planned little heist in the south bay was evidence enough of that. But he’d also been loathe to leave once they’d made allies out of the Merry Men. Killian has more than enough respect for the way Robin Hood runs his little operation out of Sherwood Forest, for the way he leads and guides and centers his own men in the patch of freedom they’ve carved out for themselves. It’s familiar in a way that Killian both wishes it weren’t and relishes all at once -- a way he hasn’t quite felt since _before_. And there is something altogether… comforting about having a home base to come back to -- something Killian is sure makes him even more of a terrible pirate (it’d made him unfit to be kept by Pan, in the end, the sheer magnitude of his longing). He’s spent close to three years sailing, searching for a place to drop anchor, a place for his soul to settle. The small encampment of the Merry Men is the closest he’s come in any realm, and now that it’s within his reach, he’d been rather loathe to leave it behind.

But he had -- he and Regina and the whole crew -- and the trip to Agrabah, for all intents and purposes, has proven to be rather successful. The rare fruits they’ve acquired, should they keep, will fetch them a good amount with the right buyer, as will the variety of cured meats. They hadn’t managed much by the way of baubles -- no glittering jewels or anything of the sort -- but the marketplace had provided them with an abundance of soft silks, sheer and beautiful and practically unheard of in Misthaven; those, Killian knows, will fetch a pretty price once they make port again, and they will reap the rewards to come long after they’re gone.

The Agrabahn marketplace had yielded more than just goods for sale and trade, though. He’d crossed paths with one of the peddlers on his way back to the ship, and it shouldn’t have been any different than the others calling out in order to tempt prospective buyers -- he should’ve been able to simply _ignore_ the man, but… Something old, long forgotten and buried deep within him had risen to the surface at the words _cure-all_ , had his blood boiling angry and hot and senseless, and he’d nearly taken a fist to the man’s face before Regina had intervened.

“It’s not worth it,” she had insisted, and Liam’s ghost had been in _her_ throat at that moment, the echo of a subject’s loyalty long gone.

And it’s not fair of him to hold that against her, it isn’t -- not when she didn’t put two and two together back at the marketplace, not when she hadn’t seen the way Liam’s blood had turned black under his skin. But… Regina of all people knows what it’s like to be given false hope, knows how devastating the blow is when everything falls apart, and for her to be so unaffected by the peddler’s blatant lies gets under Killian’s skin in a way that makes him feel more distant from her than he’s felt in a very, very long time.

It’s as if something… shifts inside of him in the thick of summer, like the wind or tide, and for the first time, he thinks that perhaps he feels properly like a pirate.

And it’s how now, out at open sea on their way back to Misthaven, Killian finds himself sitting at the table in his quarters surveying his sister and feeling like he’s looking at a stranger. They’ve hardly spoken two words together over their dinner, eating instead in an admittedly awkward silence. Well, Regina’s been eating, anyway, and slowly nursing her cup of mead, while Killian’s mostly been poking idly at his food and downing about twice as much rum as he usually would over a meal. He can’t seem to _focus_ tonight, his gaze flitting between his sister and the discarded pouch of Black Iris he’d swiped from the peddler on their way out, his irritation festering all the while.

It really should not surprise him that his brooding has not escaped his sister’s notice. “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Regina remarks after a while.

Killian adjusts his grip on his flask and resolutely does not look over at her. “One could say the same about you,” he throws back easily.

She takes a measured breath, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see her pushing what’s left of her food around her plate with her fork. “Just thinking,” she says, and he can tell by how forced her attempt at casual is that there is nothing _just_ about it. “I’ve been going over the inventory from Agrabah, running the numbers. We managed a good haul.” And she’s not wrong, exactly, but his gaze settles and focuses on the pouch containing the peddler’s petals, and something hot and uncomfortable rises up his throat like fire, burning his words into ash.

When he doesn’t so much as offer her a _hmm_ in reply, she clears her throat and shifts in her chair, clearly changing tactics. “There’s more than enough to go around,” she tries instead. “I think the Merry Men will be pleased with their cut.”

_That_ gets Killian’s attention, but only to the point of granting him the ability to speak again. Still, he doesn’t look over at her, turns the flask in his hand one way, then the other. “You don’t like them much, do you?” he muses after a moment.

He can feel her eyes on him, knows they’re narrowed and discerning as she tries to figure him out in turn. “What makes you say that?”

He scoffs out something he means to resemble a laugh but comes out much more condescending and derisive than he’d planned, and he cannot find it in him to care all that much. “You may have shared his findings with me, sister, but I saw you with Locksley well enough on my own. You looked about two seconds away from putting your fist to his face.”

“He’s too self-righteous for his own good,” she throws back, and the _immediacy_ with which she does so has Killian finally throwing a _look_ in her direction. She bristles a little at that, clearly annoyed that Killian has noticed just how much the leader of the Merry Men gets under her skin, and this time she’s the one who won’t quite look him in the eye, her gaze dropping once again to her plate. “If I’d had any objections to the _alliance_ ,” she says pointedly, “you can be sure I would have made them known. But it’s a smart arrangement,” she allows, very matter-of-fact, and she sounds so _much_ sixteen that Killian feels consumed by a riptide, sucked into a vortex of lost time.

For the space of that breath, Killian is thirteen again watching his sister match wits with her twin, Liam stifling a laugh behind his hand. For a minute, he forgets why he’s grown surly with her at all.

“We’re not all that different,” she admits, voice pitching a little lower at the admission. She deigns to glance at him again, looking up at him beneath her lashes, but it’s unfocused, deliberate, and she stops just short of meeting his irises with her own. “None of us would live under the hand of an unjust ruler ever again.”

It’s the Black Iris across the table that Killian finds himself drawn to again, and all at once, there are miles, _years_ in the space separating him from his sister.

She and Liam were not the same.

“Aye,” he murmurs, the single syllable scorching its way up his throat. He stops, takes another swig of rum and swallows the pain down, down, ignoring the way Liam’s ghost lingers like a shadow, encompassing the whole room. “I’ve been thinking about that, too, about -- about our brother,” he settles on, and yes, good, that’s better. He’s still irritated with her for earlier, but he can do this, at least, can use their new allies to make things a little clearer for her -- to make her _understand_ what’s gotten under _his_ skin tonight. “Legality aside, I think he’d like them -- Robin, and the Merry Men. He would’ve supported their intent -- their sense of honor.”

Regina is _quiet_ for a moment or two, unable to look him in the eye but unable to look away either, but when she finally does look away, it’s with a swallow and a sigh and a straightening of shoulders that reminds him so very much of the way she’d behaved under Mother’s watchful eye. And in that he feels younger still, a child of ten seeking comfort from his father, imploring, needing to know _why_. And they are far, far from home, but they are no longer in Neverland, either, neither of them children anymore, and the rum settles in around the edges, drawing his attention back to black and iris and the lie of a man who did not deserve to call himself king.

( _Or husband_ , the back of his mind supplies, and that too, Killian buries down, the memory of Regina’s face when she’d first come to on this ship one that he’s long wished to forget.)

His belly is empty, his chest aching, and he has had entirely too much rum for his own good.

He resolutely _does not care_.

“Yes, well,” Regina says, short and thin and clipped. “He always was a bleeding heart. Sometimes I wonder if he ever bled enough.”

_It’s not worth it_ , she had said, and all Killian hears is _Liam wasn’t_.

He suddenly feels far, far drunker than he did even just a moment or two ago, and the words that slip forth are both unbidden and more slurred than he thinks either of them were anticipating. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she sighs, stabbing forcefully at a piece of potato but not bothering to actually bring it to her mouth. “Liam was always about doing the right thing, Killian -- even when the right thing was a matter of perspective. You know as well as I do that there’s a difference between a sense of honor and good form. His sense of honor is what got him killed.”

All of the breath leaves Killian’s lungs at once at that; he can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “Funny,” he snaps dryly, unable to even _think_ about biting back the words at all, “from where I was standing, I thought it was your despot of a husband who sent us on that godforsaken journey.”

Regina drops her fork with a too-loud clatter, the sound a clinging echo that rattles its way around Killian’s brain and jars his focus. It was too far -- he _knows_ it was too far, he is a fucking _child_ \-- and yet he cannot seem to _help_ it; the rum is like a gust of wind in his sails, propelling him forward even when he’s not yet ready to brave the waters. (And he’s not, he’s not, he knows he’s not, Liam has been dead and gone and at the bottom of the sea for six years now and Killian will never be ready to chase him, to brave the waters, deep and dark and a shade of night and black -- to fill the empty space left in the in-between.)

Still, Regina is far, far more composed than Killian could ever hope to be -- he supposes she has Mother to thank for that, though gratitude is not something he thinks either of them is capable of feeling toward their long lost mother at any point in time. He can see the way she fights to keep it, though -- the way her jaw sets and works, the flare of her nostrils and the anxious flexing of her fingers atop the table -- before she even attempts to return his volley. “ _Funny_ ,” she forces out, sounding anything but, “you make it sound like that makes it _my_ fault.”

He manages to look away from her for a moment, if only to shrug and bring his flask to his lips again as he mutters, “You didn’t have to marry him.”

He barely hears the sharp breath that escapes her -- loses it, really, to the gentle, hushing ebb and flow of the waves against the ship’s hull -- but he can tell, he knows she’s indignant, incredulous. He takes a long swig of rum as she fights to maintain her composure, and were he any more sober than he is right now, Killian thinks he’d be wondering what he’s sure she is right now -- just how and why things had taken such an abrupt, stark turn for the worst. As it is, Killian is only just sober enough to remember that there is no magical _cure-all_ for what happened to Liam, and Regina is a _child_ if she believes otherwise.

And they are not _fucking_ children anymore.

“Okay,” she bites out, thin and breathy and barely there, “I think you’ve had enough rum for tonight.”

Killian pulls the flask away from his lips with a loud _pop_ , tugging it just out of her grasp to prevent her from taking it. “And _I_ think,” he counters, still surprised at the way his words slur together, “that I’ve long since outgrown the need for a _mother_.”

Her hand falls away abruptly at that, and even as he takes a quick drink from the flask, he can see in his peripheral vision the way her eyes betray her hurt. Her hand falls, goes down, anchors at the edge of the table and grips hard until her knuckles turn white, and there’s no mistaking the sheer contempt ( _and disappointment_ , the back of his mind supplies, and there’s Liam again, a shiver along Killian’s spine) in her tone when she speaks. “I don’t have to sit here and take this from you, _Captain_ ,” she spits, voice low, dangerous. “I can --”

“-- what, run away?” he offers glibly, flashing a grin in her direction. And the words are not his own, unbidden and spilling, toxic and poisonous and _fuck_ , what is _wrong_ with him. “You’re quite good at that, aren’t you, _sister_?”

“Fuck you,” she says, immediate and soft, and the edge is gone from her voice but there’s a slight hitch to it still, wet and weighted and laden with confusion. He can see her other hand fisting around the napkin in her lap, shaking and shaking and shaking, and he wonders how far he’s pushed, wonders when it will actually be too far. (He wonders how long he’ll force himself to drown before he lets her pull him to the surface.) “I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but I’m not going to just _sit here_ and let you try and pin this on me -- especially when we both know you don’t mean it.”

And that -- _that_ gets under his skin in a way that brings his anger beyond a boil, brimming to the point of overflowing. She has no right -- no right at _all_ to make such a baseless fucking accusation. She was gone (he was gone) for four years, tucked away behind walls without the weight of guilt that he has carried for them both (for himself, on his own, she has no part in this, honestly, fuck her). She’d had no basis in understanding back in the marketplace, none at all, and somewhere between the shadows of Nightshade and the poison in Liam’s veins and the black of Iris and the blur of booze, Killian honest to god forgets that his sister, too, knows what it’s like to have someone close -- dearest and beloved -- die in her arms.

It’s in the forgetting that his venom spits forth. “And when have you ever been any good at figuring out what it is that I really mean?”

Her chair shifts and squeaks harshly against the wooden floor, napkin thrown clumsily back onto the table as she pushes herself to her feet, and she is absolutely _not_ on the verge of tears when she storms out of his quarters back up onto the deck of the ship.

She’s _not_.

He takes another long, last swig from his flask, drinking it dry, and he cannot at all blame his unsteady gait upon a lack of sea legs at this point in his ventures. He rises, stops, stumbles, grips the edge of the table tight before tossing the flask onto it carelessly and endeavoring to move forward once more. A step, a stumble, two more, and his hand encloses around the pouch containing the Black Iris as he reaches out for purchases, his stomach churning hot with guilt and shame. Slowly, he grips the pouch in his hand tight, uncaring if he’s crushing the petals within, and he squeezes his eyes shut, swallows his own venom down, down, down, deadlier than Nightshade in every last drop.

Regina and Liam were not the same, and Killian will never be a shadow of either of them, pale by comparison.

Eyes snapping open, Killian throws the pouch of Black Iris across the room with impressive force.

When he falls onto his mattress at last, his breath burns until the world blurs black.


End file.
